As the City Breaths
by warrior of the nile
Summary: When Sherlock returns from the Great Hiatus he wants two things - to get to know his city again and to have John Watson by his side when he does. Of course the latter of the two ends going badly - not his best plan he can admit- but neither does the former. Or rather, it occurs, just not the way he was expecting.


Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart.

– Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock enters the flat and collapses on the couch face first. His nose gives a painful throb at that, but at last he didn't jostle his back again. John had seen to that enough tonight without him adding to it. Small mercy that it didn't start bleeding again – or bleed through his suit anyways. He can't quite tell if it is bleeding or not – worrying. He lets out a quiet, careful sigh.

John.

Sherlock admits that entrance may not have been his brightest idea, but he couldn't resist. The whole thing was just so ridiculous – the glasses, the awful accent, the mustache. He was trying to make John smile, make him laugh. Maybe if he laughed he wouldn't be quite as angry.

But of course he got it wrong. John is now probably more angrier then ever.

And Mary. Sherlock may be a genius, may be one of the most observant men in the country, but even he can be blind sometimes. And John has always been on the edge – or center, depending – of his blind spot. He isn't _necessarily_ surprised that John moved on. He is a soldier after all, he is strong. It was one of the main reasons Sherlock used to reassure himself that John would be fine, he could live without Sherlock, he could take the shock. Forget that fact that he was suicidal when you first met, erase that this could push him over the edge. Delete, delete, delete.

John had moved on though, was about to take another important step in moving on – until Sherlock interrupted that is. He is ashamed to say that he missed the ring, missed the implication. But he had been so focused on John that he barely noticed his dinning partner, let alone registered the fact that said partner was about to become his fiancee.

When he did realize, it was like a punch in the gut. It had only been two years. Was he so replaceable that it only took two years for John to find someone else to spend the rest of his life with? Of course Sherlock had thought there might be a girlfriend, but they had been easy enough to drive off in the past. Now though...

It threw him off. It threw him off so badly that John had punched him three more times before he gave it up and went... home... with Mary. He hadn't even been able to look at him in the end. That had truly brought the point home for Sherlock – he no longer had a place in John Watson's life, no matter what the _fiancee_ said. John will only bend so far before he breaks. In this case, breaks off from his former flatmate, for good.

The pain in his heart – for he does have one, has always had one, but had to protect it because the world seemed set on breaking it – matched the pain in his body, particularly his back. But his back was just the worst of it. It wasn't like the torturers limited themselves.

And so he lets himself do something that he had forbid for the last two year – he cries. He sobs and it hurts his back and his ribs and his nose and his heart, but he can't stop. He had been holding these tears back for two years and now he can't stop.

"Oh my child," says a kind voice.

Sherlock jerks up, panicked. Who was there? How had they gotten into the flat? How did he not hear? What does–

"Shh, my child. Be at ease. I am here to help, not hinder," the voice answers and oh–

Kneeling beside the couch is a woman. A beautiful woman with long, black curly hair and green eyes. Her skin is pale, but there are a trail of freckles across her nose, reaching from one side of her face to another. She is dressed in jeans and a comfortable looking grey jumper.

But it is her expression that catches Sherlock's attention the most. Her eyes hold a sadness, yet there is such warmth and reassurance in them as well. They say eyes are the window to the soul. Sherlock has always found this statement rubbish, but now...

She moves up onto the couch and Sherlock cannot help himself. He practically launches himself into her arms, still sobbing. Part of his brain protests this action. It points out how completely out of character this is for him. He shouldn't even be crying, let alone crying in some stranger's arms. But everything about this woman shouts warmth and protection and _love._

He may have been able to resist the former two, but not the latter. He is in far too vulnerable of a state right now to refuse. And besides, Sherlock doubts she can make the situation any worse. Death would almost be a blessing at this point.

As Sherlock's sobs slow he becomes more aware of the fact that he is being pathetic and emotional and dear god, what in the world is he doing right now?

"Who are you?" he manages to ask, voice hoarse and tone pained.

"Someone who cares about you very much child. Now allow me get up and I shall see to your wounds, shall I?" she gently pushes the detective off of her.

Sherlock watches her move with confidence into the loo and emerge with John's medical kit with ease. "There is only one person who cares for me here and it's not you," he informs her, "Try again."

"Oh I doubt there is only _one_ person in London. I can name four right off the top of my head – four and a half if I am feeling generous. But I'm not, so there are at least four."

"Four and a half?" Sherlock repeats, feeling slow.

"Your meddling brother, your darling landlady, your loyal DI and charming Molly."

"That is only four. And why is Molly the only one you actually named. How do you know this?"

"I named Molly because she is my favorite right now. The half doesn't count because if I think about it too much I am going to do something I may not regret. As to how I am, will you believe me without proof child? I know I seem familiar to you, but can you believe the impossible?"

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

The woman gives a warm laugh. "I have missed you child, dearly so."

"That doesn't–"

She grasps his chin gently, making him turn and look at her. "Look child and believe."

Sherlock has no choice but to look into her eyes. But when he does, oh what he sees – street signs, the Tube schedule, road maps, offices, restaurants, the sewer system, banks, schools, parks and people... all of the people this city could ever contain. He jerks away, breathing hard. He starts to shake. Impossible, it's impossible, but what he saw...

"You said you wanted to get to know me again. I admit that I hadn't planned to take this route, but after tonight..." she shrugs, "You have always been among my favorite children. You have always been subconsciously aware of me, ever since you first moved here. Most people can live here their entire lives and never to get to know me half as well as you do. You constantly seek my company, you desire to know every inch of me, you help me protect my children when I cannot. You are so very clever that I cannot help but play favorites, even though a mother never should. But how could I not love you, when you were so broken, so alone and yet so brilliant? How could I not strive to always care for you when others could not? And then, how could I not help you when you finally found someone of your own, someone who cared for you as much as I did," her face darkens, "or so I thought."

"The half – John."

"John Watson," she repeats, clearly very, _very_ unhappy. "I shall not harm him for your sake, but I hope he is ready for some... _minor_ inconveniences," she smirks, "I know I am. But enough for now, let me clean you up again."

She gently helps Sherlock disrobe and cleans his wounds that had indeed started bleeding again. After she is finished she leads him to bed. "Sleep now child, it is time to heal." She tucks him in and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "I shall not be far in case of need," she reassures him as she turns off the light. "Sweet dreams."

As if that had been an actual blessing and not just a saying, that is what Sherlock does. For the first time in months he sleeps peacefully. His dreams are not plagued by disaster and violence and screams, but of joy and laughter and running around London, feeling invincible.

But who knows, it just might have been. London does look after her children after all, especially her favorites.

* * *

In the morning Sherlock wakes refreshed. He is still sore, but it is no where near the pain he had been living with. His heart also feels soothed, as embarrassing and ridiculous as it feels to admit such a thing, if only to himself.

When last nights memories come back to him, he has to review them three times to make sure they actually happened. After all, the conclusion hardly seems logical. But the proof in her eyes is undeniable. London had come to personally care for one of her own.

That is when he smells the food. Obviously his brain is not working to full capacity yet, despite the sleep he had. He puts on his dressing gown and walks into the kitchen. There London sits, eating breakfast. She smiles when she sees him.

"Hello child. Sleep well I trust?"

He nods.

"Excellent. I made breakfast and I expect you to eat it. You can argue about food when you are no longer malnourished."

He nods again and obeys her, eating the full English breakfast set before him. He manages about half before he can eat no more.

London nods. "Very good child."

Sherlock feels he should object to constantly being called child. He certainly isn't one and hasn't been one for years, despite what Mycroft said. But it makes him feel safe strangely enough. And if it is one thing he needs right now, it is safety. So he says instead, "You are still here."

"Of course. You hardly thought I was going to leave you alone did you?"

"I did not think I would rate high on the scale compared to the other responsibilities you must have," he states.

"Oh child," she come over and hugs him. He tenses, but allows it. "You are top priority right now. And don't worry," she soothes, "I know not to neglect my other children. Just because I am here does not mean I am not elsewhere as well. Omnipresence can be a wonderful thing – mostly," she adds the last a bit ruefully. "Although I am able to handle information overloads much better then you dear. I _am_ technically a city after all."

"How does this work?" he asks, ever curious.

"What you see now is a physical manifestation of my true self – of the city. It change with the moods and styles of my children, depending on what they need. The city is ever changing and therefore so am I. I must say it has been decades since I last talked to one of my children like this."

"You are aware of everything right now? All at once? And you can process it all?"

She smiles. "Come child," Guiding him over to the couch, she lays down first and coaxes him down on top of her. She wraps her arms securely around him. "Come child," she repeats, "it is time to get to know me again."

They discuss what has changed and what has stayed the same – road construction, demographics, renovations, relocation, new businesses, old restaurants, births, death, crimes, everything. All of the ways, big and small, that a city can change in two years. They talk for hours, never stopping, even when she insists on both lunch and supper.

The more they talk, the more Sherlock slowly begins to feel like he is finally home. This is his city and he is going to reclaim it.

That he is having a conversation with the physical manifestation of the city was slightly jarring at first, but the thought didn't last long. It is far too interesting for him to bother with things such as impossibilities.

Boring. Useless. Waste of storage space.

Unconventional though it may be, it is the best way to gather information. Primary sources are always preferred.

It is a shock then, when Mrs Hudson comes up the stairs. "Yoo hoo, Sherlock dear, I brought you some tea and biscuits. I accidentally made – oh! Hello dear," she says in surprise, "I didn't know he had anyone up here."

London smiles from the couch, still holding the detective. "Not to worry, I arrived last night before you came home. Sherlock let me in – I'm an old friend."

Mrs Hudson sets the tray on the table in front of the couch and takes a seat in Sherlock's chair. "Oh my, did things not go well with John dear?" she asks worriedly.

"Slight miscalculation," he admits.

"Well, it is certainly nice of you...?"

"Dinas, please."

Mrs Hudson smile. "Dinas then. I can glad Sherlock has someone to turn to if the doctor can't be here." Her tone is pleasant, but it is clear that she still holds some anger towards John.

Both people on the couch pick up on it."You aren't happy with him either?" London asks.

"No. Not to say the poor man doesn't have a right to be upset. I was in a right tizzy when Sherlock first showed up. But the man never called, never wrote, never visited after he moved out. No a peep. You would think that the three previous years would mean something, not just the two Sherlock had to go away. But grief does strange things to people when they lose a loved one," her tone shifts to sympathetic, clearly implying her belief that they were romatically involved before, "Still though," she adds, huffing, "he wasn't the only one."

London nods. "I agree. After Sherlock told me what happened with John I came right over."

"Well I'm glad someone has the sense to stick by him. Although if you don't mind me asking, how did you two meet? It's just, I've never seen you around before."

"Oh that. We met when Sherlock first moved to London. We spent much of our time together then. I admit," she sounds sheepish here, "that after a while our schedules became busier and we weren't able to see each other, but I have always made a point to keep in contact."

Mrs Hudson nods, obviously satisfied. "I'll leave you two alone now," she gets up, "Call if you need anything dear, but remember I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

"Thank you," London says and Sherlock nods.

They talk for a couple more hours before London once again sends Sherlock to bed, with a blessing of sweet dreams.

* * *

The two fall into a sort of retinue over the next few weeks. London would make breakfast. After they ate she would clean Sherlock's wounds and they would talk about the city. Then she would make lunch and supper, both while they talked. As Sherlock's injuries healed, they began to explore. It is all well and good to talk about the things that have changed, it is another thing to see them.

So as time went on Sherlock relearned the city both by ear and by sight, sound, touch, feel. He learned new routes and mapped them out for himself. He heard about new restaurants and ate there, new businesses and scooped them out, new people and saw them.

He reclaimed his city, one day at a time.

The only thing that could have made it better was if there was another person by his side. Not that it wasn't fascinating to be taken on a tour of the city by the city herself, but it wasn't the same. It was a laugh instead of a giggle, long black hair instead of short blonde, a witty sense of humor instead of a dry one.

But the one person who could have made it better wanted nothing to do with him. Despite what Mary said, Sherlock has heard nothing from John Watson in two weeks. He deals with it the best he can, with maturity and resignation.

But just because he was expecting it, doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt.

* * *

The two of them – the man and the city – solve the case. They run through the city on a mad dash to save Parliament. They find the bomb and the responsible party and the resources to go with it.

The two of the are breathless and giddy and adrenaline rushes through them.

Sherlock giggles helplessly, but when he looks over, his vision doubles and for a moment London isn't there, but someone else – a short soldiers, with shinning bright eyes and a happy grin. But reality comes back soon enough and John's ghost vanishes from view.

Sherlock aches.

* * *

It is a month. A month since he has last heard from John Watson. A month since he has last seen him. A month since he said his silent goodbye. A month and then –

A knock on the door.

London answers it. Sherlock is constantly surprised she is still here, but she has made no mention of leaving and nor has he. He won't admit it, but she helps the ache of loneliness that he now carries with him. But then, he doesn't have to.

She knows anyways.

"Er, hello," a voice says and Sherlock freezes. John.

"Can I help you?" she asks coldly.

"Yeah. Ah, is um, is Sherlock here?" he asks uncertainly.

"Yes."

"Great, er, can I speak with him?"

"That depends. What are you going to talk about?"

Sherlock can hear the steel enter the man's voice. "Personal things that I believe are none of your business."

"Oh, _personal things._ How very interesting. Would those _personal things_ have anything to do with the way you dropped him like last years rubbish after you repeatedly assaulted him? Because if they do, then I do believe it _is_ my business. I have been the one to pick up the pieces after all."

"Oh... are you...?"

"Oh for gods sake! You ask me if we're together and I will not be held responsible for my actions. What is with you and being so worried about if you are or not a couple? Can't you stand the idea? Or is it," her voice drops lower, "that you want it too much? Is it that you think you cannot get it? That you are too stupid to see what is right in front of you?"

Sherlock exits the kitchen. "Dinas," he says quietly, "enough."

"Very well. But if he hurts you again..." she trails off before giving John a threatening look and leaves the flat to join Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner for some good gossip.

"Come in," Sherlock says carefully, "Tea?"

"Er, yeah, sure. Hold the drugs," he jokes weakly.

Sherlock goes back into the kitchen and John follows. "I apologize for Dinas, she tends to be rather protective towards me, especially lately."

"Oh, no. It's fine. I'm glad you have someone to look after you. I... well I deserved that anyways."

Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, I mean it. I've been a real arse since you've returned. I'm not proud of it, but I was. And I want to apologize. I shouldn't have acted... quite so violently."

Sherlock shrugs. "I shouldn't have surprised you like that."

"No you shouldn't have. But that still doesn't excuse me. Just... honestly Sherlock, the glasses, the accent, the _fake mustache_? A bit over the top, yeah?"

He shrugs uncomfortably. "I was trying to make you laugh," he admits and then smirks, "But I see you got rid of your as well. Good. Really John, what were you thinking? It looked like a fuzzy caterpillar crawled up onto your face and died."

"Hey! I'll have you know it wasn't that bad."

"Yes John, it really was."

"Git."

"I never said otherwise."

An awkward silence descends as Sherlock hands John his tea.

"So... Dinas?"

"An old friend. We met when I first moved to London, but haven't seen each other in some time."

"Right." A pause and then a sigh. "So I talked things over with Mary... a lot – that woman is almost as stubborn as you are – and... well..." he sighs again, " She insisted I knew for sure what I wanted, before I did something I would regret. Which I did and..."

Sherlock nods and waits for the inevitable.

"We broke up."

Sherlock almost spews his tea all over himself. " _Broke up_?" he asks, "You were going to propose and you _broke up_ instead?"

"Yeah."

Another pause.

" _Why_?"

"Because you came back."

Sherlock isn't sure what to say to that.

John runs a hand through his hair. "Is it that much of a surprise? You have always been the center of my world since the beginning. I may not have wanted to admit it, but you have. So when you... went away... the center of my world dropped out and I was so lost. But now..." he sighs, "You know I have never been good at talking about emotions, even if I am better then you."

Sherlock nods. It is true. They never bring up things like feelings because the discussion inevitably goes wrong.

"So... would you mind if I showed you instead?" John is obviously nervous by the way the continues to lick his lips throughout this conversation.

Sherlock just nods again, afraid that if he tried to speak, his voice would betray him.

John walks over in front of him. "Right," he says, gathering courage. Then slowly, giving Sherlock enough time to move away if he wanted, he presses a soft kiss to the detective's lips.

"Oh," Sherlock gasps, thoughts spinning.

"Yeah, oh. I mean, I'm still mad and I would still like an explanation, but..."

"Oh," Sherlock repeats, pauses and then nods."This is... this is good," he replies cautiously.

"Yeah?" A small smile starts to form on John's lips.

"Yeah."

The smile grows. "Good. Er... what about Dinas? I know you said she was just a friend and I believe you, but hasn't she been living with you?"

"Yes, but she has to be going soon. She's not exactly one to stay in one place for long."

"Okay, I mean, I don't want to presume anything."

Sherlock smiles. "It's fine John. Now when are you moving back in?"

"Prat."

* * *

And so the chase continues.

Sherlock never does see London again after she leaves, but sometimes he gets a flash from the corner of his eye, a laugh in his ear, a speck of knowledge that is not his own. He smiles when he does. For he may not see her, but he knows he is never alone.

After all, London takes care of her children.

Especially her favorites.


End file.
